


To Avoid Collateral Damage

by ETNRL4L



Series: Mellark Legacy [6]
Category: Hunger Games (2012), Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-19
Updated: 2012-12-19
Packaged: 2017-11-22 10:33:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/608883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ETNRL4L/pseuds/ETNRL4L
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"'So that's the Seam version of a guilt trip', he mused bitterly... Perfect!'" Another reader requested expansion story to my fic Warm Welcomes and Cold Shoulders. How did Peeta begin bringing Prim and Mrs. Everdeen baked goods and how did he interact with people in the Seam during the period of Catching Fire? This reader truly had inspired requests. How could I deny?</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Avoid Collateral Damage

**Author's Note:**

> Yet another expansion requested by Kaister. I know I owe you all another chapter for 'Is It Truly Far From the Tree?' and I assure you I am working on it. But, this reader requested to read about how Peeta began bringing Prim and Mrs. Everdeen baked goods and how he interacted with people in the Seam during the period of Catching Fire. Once again, I found myself inexorably compelled to explore this notion, as what popped into my head is nothing I've read before and definitely nothing canon delved into. I can't pass up excellent ideas from readers… I just… can't!
> 
> Disclaimer:The Hunger Games and all the characters in this fic are the property of Suzanne Collins.
> 
> Enjoy!

"Hey, Peeta! You have a visitor!"

With a quick glance to the clock on the opposite wall to note it was a few minutes past the time school let out, the baker's youngest got off the stool where he'd spent the past couple of hours decorating six dozen cupcakes to mimic an entire field of wild flowers. Figuring it was Delly or one of the metalworker's children, coming to appraise how he'd been- seeing how he'd somewhat secluded himself in either his home or the bakery the preceding fortnight due to his ever-growing disillusion, resentment and depression at a certain steel-eyed girl- he picked up a towel, wiping his hands of icing as he ventured out of the kitchen into the storefront.

Both fair eyebrows shot nearly into his hairline once his gaze traveled past his eldest brother, leaning casually on the counter, to land on the diminutive twelve-year-old with arms crossed and a determined look in her sky blue eyes. Her expression remained completely staunch as she deadpanned without preamble upon seeing him emerge from the back, "You owe me, Peeta Mellark."

The amusement lazing Flax's baritone was as prominent as the deep creases confusion weaved between his younger brother's brows when he turned to him. "Should I be around to hear this? I thought it was the other one you were messing with. You're a brave man juggling sisters, little brother."

Peeta spared a moment to narrow his eyes into a murderous sneer at the older teen before turning a softer, deeply befuddled look on the blonde Seam girl across the counter. Shrugging helplessly, he huffed, "I'm sorry, what?"

Without missing a beat, the golden-haired girl tipped her head as if frustrated at his question and elaborated in a tone she noticeably had to keep level, "In one of the interviews, you promised to teach me to play chess and cards. But, once the cameras were gone, you disappeared. I love games. You promised to teach me. You have to keep your promise."

Feeling an unexpectedly strong contrition at the young girl's arraignment, the sixteen-year-old pried his eyes away from hers to flit toward his older brother. He found commiseration and understanding within the older teenager's oceanic pools. His brother understood just how convoluted his current dilemma with this pre-pubescent girl was.

How was he supposed to make good on a promise made as part of a torturous charade? How could he be around her when it meant coming in contact with someone who had cast him off as inconvenient at the first opportunity she'd had. How could he explain all _that_ to an innocent little girl?

He was wracking his brain for answers, excuses, lies- anything he could tell this girl, when she spoke up again in that same determined, matter-of-fact intonation, "I know you're a really great liar, Peeta." This instantly got both boys' attention. Had she been reading their thoughts?

Prim continued, undeterred by the awed looks she was receiving form her audience of two, "Your lies made people see her the way _you_ see her. They kept her alive in that awful place. Your lies served a purpose and thanks to them, my sister is here. Don't think I'm too young or too naïve to understand that. I also know my sister. She doesn't see what's right in front of her at times. She makes what's easy hard. She had to learn to make rash decisions with little thought daily to keep us alive. It's who she is, now. I'm not my sister. I'm not tied to her at the hip. I had her buy me a chessboard and a deck of cards. I expect you to keep your word and teach me how to play."

With that, she turned on her heel and left the shop.

The Mellark youngest turned back, pushing open the door to the kitchen while pointedly ignoring the boisterous, mocking laughter from his older brother that followed. Flax was such a jerk.

He sagged down into his stool, bringing a hand up to drag down his face in exasperation.

' _So that's the Seam version of a guilt trip_ ', he mused bitterly.

' _Perfect!_ '

* * *

He baked her cookies.

He was well aware it was eight thirty in the morning and someone so young shouldn't have that much sugar that early, but he'd always seen her admiring his cakes and looking longingly at his cookies when her big sister would bring her around their shop to look at the display.

The thought of the older sister churned up emotions in him he didn't want to deal with- things like spite, anger, dejection, jealousy, longing… love. He shook his head violently in a fruitless attempt to wrench the darkening thoughts from his mind. He'd come to find over the last few weeks that physical gestures rarely worked to quell the discomfort of what he felt for the Seam huntress. It wasn't as if he could reach inside and wring out what infected his very soul, after all.

Instead, he rang the bell and glared down at the plastic-wrapped plate in his hands. He tried to focus on the patterns he'd designed into the cookies, using this to center his mind on something more appeasing. His eye quickly settle on a rook, then the king, a knight- he'd decorated them all with pieces from her chess set. He had a sneaking suspicion she'd especially like that.

And, this was his reparation offering, after all…

He instinctually stiffened upon hearing footsteps approach the door, even when he knew it was uncalled-for. He'd purposely waited until well past the time the person within this home who was his reason for abstaining from it should be out on her daily hunting excursion before venturing to visit.

It was trifling and pathetic, he knew. But, why did _he_ always have to be the adult? Wasn't he technically a child, too? Or, whatever was left of a child once the Games were done with them, anyway? So, he felt like being petty and petulant. If someone had a problem with it, they could bite the roundest part of his-

"Peeta! What a lovely surprise to see you here!" The sixteen-year-old's admittedly dark introspections were shattered by the healer's warm welcome.

He was glad for it, too.

"Good morning, Mrs. Everdeen. I came to see if Prim wanted to play a game of chess. I brought her cookies." After years of practice, he found the easy manner and amicable smile slip into place almost mechanically.

He inwardly cringed at the ease with which the mask slid on. This was a monster borne of the instinct to survive, but a monster, nonetheless.

The Everdeen matriarch instantly put a warm hand on his arm, ushering him in the door and towards the kitchen. She paused briefly at the landing to vociferate, "Prim! Peeta's here to see you." before continuing on to the kitchen with her guest in tow.

Once in the kitchen, she directed him to sit at one of the chairs as they heard the shuffling around upstairs. It sounded like she fell twice in her flurry. Peeta couldn't help smile at the mental image.

Gazing down at the cookies, the blonde woman spoke almost reverently, "These are magnificent, Peeta. You have such amazing talent. Your father must be so proud of you."

The teenager was uncertain if it was the slight quake her voice took on at the end of that statement, or the sadness that flickered through the cerulean in her eyes, but it became painfully transparent that she connected his father to some painful memory. He made a mental note to speak of his sire as sparingly as possible to her, if only to spare her the emotional flogging.

He was surprised when she suddenly locked eyes with him, an unvoiced plea hidden in the liquid depths. Her inflection denoted her reservations, "We would love you to bring more of these, if you find the time. Please don't be a stranger. We owe you so much. _I_ owe so much…"

Peeta quirked a questioning brow, "Um, I'm not Seam. I wasn't raised with this- and I don't mean any disrespect, by the way- ridiculous notion of owing people the kindness they willingly choose to bestow. And, If I may be blunt, Mrs. Everdeen, neither were you. We're both Merchant. We both know our cast believes themselves superior, though I have absolutely no notion why they should. No one in Twelve is less oppressed than anyone else. We're all just dragged down in different ways. You of all people know that to be true." He took a moment to swallow dryly and look down at his hands, continuing in a voice he strained failingly to keep the bitterness out of, "I did what I did in the arena because I loved her. I wanted her to live, regardless of the cost. I neither expected nor wanted anything in return from anyone." He now finished in an almost inaudible whisper, still not meeting her gaze, "The only thing I expected was to die… someone just managed to put a clog in that plan…"

Choosing not to bring attention to the obvious despair the teenager was averting his eyes to keep from displaying openly, the healer segued with a humorless scoff, "You'd be surprised the things you pick up after living in the Seam for two decades, Peeta. We may not have much there, but we have our pride and our sense of honor. A show of kindness is more often than not, something that comes at the cost of a life in the Seam. So, yes, we take our debts very seriously." She regarded him with an unflinching, level stare when his eyes shot up from his hands to meet hers, registering surprise.

"As far as I'm concerned, you gave up everything for my child." She looked away briefly, pain and shame glinting through the blue in her eyes, "Not even I was capable of doing that for her when it really counted."

She then moved toward the fridge to pull out a pitcher of milk as they heard footfalls coming down the stairs. She turned back to him, getting out quickly as if to make sure Prim could not overhear, "I loved your father's baking when we were kids. He always sneaked me some, you know. It gets very quite here with Katniss out hunting and Prim at school. If you ever want to keep an old widow company, I'd love more of what you make. You're always welcome in this house, Peeta. Never forget that."

Before the sixteen-year-old could do more than quirk a flabbergasted eyebrow at the woman's unvoiced invitation, she had turned back to whatever she'd been doing in the kitchen before his arrival and he found his attention diverted to the excited pre-teen that all but barreled into the kitchen.

"So, you made it out to keep your word. There's hope for you yet, Mellark."

Peeta couldn't help the genuine smile that found its way upon his features. This conniving little minx was just too adorable.

* * *

The Everdeen girls were awful liars.

Really, Peeta had known this on some hypothetical level, but after spending three hours trying to teach Primrose Everdeen the finer points of bluffing her way through a game of poker, he was certain beyond a shadow of a doubt this girl was incapable of deceit.

She had more tells than a children's storybook. She shifted uncomfortable in her seat. She bit her thumb. She blinked too much. At one point, when she had a royal flush, he'd been afraid she was having some sort of seizure.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd laughed so hard.

She hit pretty hard for such a little thing, though. Apparently, she didn't appreciate being mocked and had slugged him in the arm in her exasperation when he'd been unable to restrain the laughter.

What was even worse, she hated to win! She couldn't grasp the concept that the whole point of playing a competitive card game was that there had to be a loser. She wanted all the games to end in a draw. This notion, of course, only caused the teenager to failingly attempt to suppress another bout of guffaws, earning him another whack in the shoulder.

She was very fun to play with, he'd found himself inwardly musing. He'd never played with anyone younger than he was, unless one counted Delly, and she was only three months his junior, so he didn't really count her.

He found himself forgetting the world outside their games, immersing himself in that rare universe that was the boundless imagination of a child. He'd all but forgotten he was a child. The Games did a very thorough job of helping him forget childish things, after all.

He was in the process of demonstrating to a giggling Prim the way the knight piece moved on the chessboard by playing out a rather ridiculous little scene where the piece consumed a pawn when a voice resounded through the den from behind them abruptly.

"Hey, little duck! Guess what I saw tod-"

The tension that filled the room once azure met steel, seemed to siphon all the breathable air out of it- and it wasn't a particularly small room, either. So, the feat was a rather estimable one at that.

A noticeably panicking Prim attempted to diffuse the stifling air of… she didn't even know _what_ this was that hung in the room once her sister and the previously perfectly congenial neighbor boy locked eyes in this glaring contest. "What did you see, Katniss?" Her voice was about two decibels too high to convincingly hide her discomfort.

Noting the pitch to the twelve-year-old's inflection, the Mellark teenager wrenched his eyes away from the girl who simultaneously plagued and consecrated most of his waking thoughts as of late into a melee of incongruousness to land them on her younger sister. All his previous mirth was gone, replaced by a blank, unreadable expression. "I better be getting home, Prim."

An abrupt hand on his shoulder stifled his movement of getting up from the floor where they had been playing. As if it wasn't enough of an effort to maneuver his cybernetic leg when he was in this position, he scoffed inwardly. Guilt quickly replaced any dark thoughts the moment he linked eyes with the large, beseeching pools of the little girl the hand on his shoulder belonged to. "Please, Peeta! You said you'd teach me. We haven't learned all the pieces yet. Don't go!"

His eyes flitted briefly, in reproach toward the Seam huntress, who seemed to find the grain on the floor far more interesting than their present conversation- ' _Coward!_ '- before turning gentler eyes on the little girl. His façade slipped in place like a well-worn glove, all-inclusive smile and all. "I live three houses away, Prim. I don't plan on going anywhere. I'll be back as soon as I get a chance or you can come over, okay?"

The forlorn shadow never leaving her eyes, the blonde Seam girl nodded her assent mutely, well aware this was more than generous, considering whatever chilled relationship this boy currently had with her sister.

Managing one more grin that made it nowhere near his eyes, the Mellark teen got to his feet and made for the exit of the den.

Not sure what propelled him- maybe he wanted to see that flicker of guilt in her eyes, maybe he was a glutton for inflicting damage on his own psyche, he wasn't certain. He stopped right in front of the steel-eyed girl that so haunted him, stating in as clipped and cold a tone as he could manage, "Have a nice afternoon, Katniss."

And there it was.

Her gaze shot up in alarm to lock with his, his words to her obviously unexpected and he saw that confused array of emotions splay through the infinity of tarnished silver that were her eyes.

Such beautiful eyes.

Such beautiful steel eyes, which he was entirely unaware, longingly followed every step of his hasty retreat out of her home, down her porch and out of her line of sight.

* * *

He'd been accused of a lot of things in his life (mostly by his mother during her enraged rants), but he was hardly easily intimidated.

And, in the case of a certain Seam huntress, it wasn't even fear that kept him at arm's length. Every fiber of his being yearned for more from her than she wanted him to reciprocate and he loathed himself for that dichotomy in their relationship- he resented _her_ for it.

The rational part of his mind tried many times to reason through the cacophony of hurt and dejection that blaming her for not returning his feelings was unfair, cruel even. He found his heart overrode his rational mind time and time again, however.

He wanted to be angry with her. He wanted to blame her for his loneliness- his despair. He needed to paint her the villain in his mind's eye to excuse his squandered affections over the past decade, as pretext for the pathetic reality that he was _still_ inexorably in love with her, even after being dealt the deathly blow of her rejection.

However, in spite of his discomfort in his neighbor's presence, he often found himself in her home after that first awkward visit, usually in the mornings, often with her mother.

The healer was a kind, tempered woman. And, she wasn't exaggerating about her love for his baking. She'd admitted she would've loved to have his father's again, but was simply too ashamed of their past to venture into the bakery herself. He wasn't sure how to respond to that beyond telling her that he and his brothers had taken over the lion's share of the baking years prior, so it wasn't really that much of an issue who made it. They were the Mellark recipes, regardless.

A strange kind of fulfilled smile had lit up her expression when he'd told her that. "I'm very happy to know his love for what he does lives on through you, then."

The blonde hadn't known how to respond to that… especially when that sad look had flitted though her eyes almost imperceptibly as she said it.

The sixteen-year-old had found an unexpected but welcome fringe benefit to the time he was spending with the Everdeen matriarch was the people he met at her home- Seam people.

Seam customers were rare at the bakery. Few could afford real bakery bread and those who did come in, rarely spoke more than a few words, the cast disparity making them feel out of sorts communing with Merchant ilk.

The folks he met at the Everdeen home were her patients. They didn't look upon him as either Seam or Merchant. They gazed upon him with an awed reverence he could only guess was reserved for a Victor who hadn't taken any of their children off to the Capitol to be slaughtered… yet.

He was fairly certain once he came back with a few coffins in tow, they'd look upon him differently. _He_ wasn't going to be able to see himself in the mirror the same, that was for sure. What made these people any better than him?

Therefore, he took what he knew would be a transient opportunity to get to know this previously elusive cast in his district. He learned family names; got to know better who did what in the Seam, spoke to them.

He found they were a very different people than the merchant class. They weren't cold, per se. However, where he had been raised to consider every Merchant child a friend, Seam children only really seemed to consider family or very immediate neighbors intimate. He realized this was a necessity borne of watching generations of 'friends' being carted off to the slaughter in the Capitol. It likely hurt far less to keep a certain detachment. The Mellark's youngest couldn't help his sorrow at the knowledge of just how unjust the way these children grew up was.

He found himself teaching card games to the little ones that came with their ailing mothers to seek out the healer, more often than not, paying Mrs. Everdeen for the services rendered when it was obvious one particular family simply could not afford it.

"You can't keep doing this, Peeta," she finally huffed out one day in frustration as he handed her the coins for a patient who'd just left with a six-year-old suffering from measles. "They can't depend on you. You can't take care of them all. There's only one of you. How are you even getting them to accept you paying their consultations?"

There was no mirth in the lop-sided grin he regarded her with as he shrugged, "I tell them to consider it a small reparation for the child I might not bring back to them next year."

The healer found her mouth hanging open in response.

What could anyone in all of Panem say to _that_?

_FIN_


End file.
